Who'll Watch the Watchdogs?
by wregular
Summary: With Lord Hater away at a supervillains convention, Peepers has been left in charge of the army of his peers. Will he keep things running smoothly, or will things go south when his eye is turned? A three-part tale.
1. Chapter 1

"QUIET!" bellowed Lord Hater as he thumped his podium, handily illustrating the exact opposite of the word's meaning.

The watchdogs' chatter ceased immediately as Hater's command echoed through the great hall. Within a split second the now-silent army had assumed its formation.

Hater was impressed. Mostly at his own power, that was, but also at how disciplined his minions had become over the past few months. All he had to do was shout a single word - 'quiet', usually, or sometimes 'minions', and on one memorable occasion 'mommy' - and there they were, in perfect rows and columns, sorted alphabetically by name. From Aaron at the back left to Zoltan at the front right, none dared move a muscle or blink a singular eye.

This was just what Hater needed. He absolutely had to be the center of attention, and if this was achieved out of fear rather than respect, so much the better.

He cleared his throat and began his speech.

"As you all know from our newsletter," he said, "I am leaving today for the annual Supervillains Convention. It's Earth's turn to host and they have picked the most nefarious lair on their entire planet: Clearwater, Florida!"

There were gasps and yelps from the assemled Watchdogs. A few fainted, being helped to their feet by their neighbors. Hater waited a few seconds for the commotion to subside before continuing.

"As the most important guest it's vital that I get there early, so I'll be leaving as soon as Peepers finishes packing my bags. This brings me to my next point."

Hater thumped the podium once more for emphasis. "Peepers is in charge until I get back! I want you to treat him exactly as you'd treat me. If he says jump, you say how high. If he says blink, you... actually, don't blink. It creeps me out when you do that. Ugh."

He began to pace the stage, hands crossed behind his back. "I can't miss this convention. It's a chance for me to show all the other supervillains how incredible a job I'm doing trying to take over the universe. But leaving you behind is the hardest thing I've ever had to do." A few Watchdogs in the 'H' column began to sigh and say 'aww', only to be interrupted by Hater.

"That's because I trust you about as far as I can throw a handful of you, which because you lost my good arm last week when you took it to the cleaners, isn't very far at all! My only hope is that Peepers, as your trusted mentor and guide, can knock some sense into you!" The 'H' column said 'aww' again, this time in a sad voice.

"I will return in three days' time, and when I get back I expect this place to be spotless."

Right on cue, Peepers appeared at the side of the stage, dragging an immense suitcase and lugging on his tiny frame a carry-on backpack several times his height and weight.

"Lord Hater, sir!" he gasped. "Your clothing is arranged just as you like it. I've ensured each day's underpants are correctly labeled so we don't have a repeat of last year's problems-"

"ENOUGH!" said Hater, grabbing the suitcase. "Your only job now is to keep this rabble in line," he said, waving a hand towards the still-assembled army. He grabbed the backpack off Peepers and slipped it over his shoulders. "I'll be back in three days. Until then... watchdogs: get to work!"

The assembled army cheered in unison as Hater stormed off-stage for his flight to Earth before immediately settling back into their silent rows and columns.

Peepers nodded, saluted, then skittered to the very front of the stage. "You heard Lord Hater!" he cried. "It's time to get to work!"

The very front of columns G through T gave Peepers some polite applause.

"You... you heard me! It's work time!"

A hand from near the back of column C tentatively rose into the air.

"Cameron? What do you want?" said Peepers.

The hand kept waving.

"CAMERON! CAMERON! WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT?"

"Um..." said a small voice at the very front. "I don't think she can hear you."

Peepers leaned over the stage and gesticulated in frustration. "Cameron's a boy!"

"Yes, but that's Camilla. Cameron's three behind."

"Don't get smart with me, Luis!"

"What did I do!?" squawked an indignant voice from behind. Luis stood, fists balled on his hips, behind the one who had spoken.

"I'm Luke, Peepers," said the original voice.

Peepers narrowed his eye in concentration. He was a little rusty at names these days.

"Cut Peepers some slack," said a sarcastic, female voice two rows to the left. "It's not like he'd remember who any of us are, now that he's Lord Hater's _special faaaaavorite._"

"Augh! Amanda, how dare you!" screeched Peepers, clutching his heart with wounded offence, but Amanda paid him no mind as she chuckled and exchanged high-fives with Amethyst and Blake.

There was chatter now, rising in little bursts from isolated pockets of the room. Over in row 12 a game what looked to be a poker game was well underway; at the back of column D Peepers could have sworn that Daria and Daryn were making out. He didn't even want to know what was happening in column X-Y-Z.

Things were getting out of control. Nervously he looked from side-to-side, his eyes drawn to Hater outside as he threw his luggage carelessly into the back of his private spacecraft before climbing in himself. As his chaffeur took him away, Peepers knew that, more than ever, he was on his own.

In desperation he scrambled to the top of the podium and tapped the microphone. Good - it still worked. Hater never used it, preferring the natural timbre of his voice, which never failed to command respect from the minions. But Peepers needed all the help he can get.

"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!" he screamed at the top of his tiny lungs. Coupled with some screechy feedback from the antique microphone, it at least had the effect of restoring order.

"I know how it is. I don't like you and you don't like me."

"You got that right," said Amanda with a chuckle. Peepers glared at her and silenced the little ripple of laughter around her.

"... but with Hater away, I'm in charge around here!" continued Peepers. "And I don't care _what_ you think. You can't walk all over me. Hater picked me because _I'm_ the best one. Don't believe me? _Try me._"

From some of the quieter rows, Peepers could have sworn he heard a few gulps. From everyone else... silence. Precious, fearful, scared-stiff silence.

Maybe the next three days would be easier than he thought.

Maybe he was on to something.

Maybe he liked being in charge.


	2. Chapter 2

Peepers looked out with a commanding eye at the army before him, wishing only that he had a pin he could drop.

Yes, truly he was master of all he surveyed. None would dare disobey his word. With the assembled troops hanging on his every word, he was a field marshal. No - better than a field marshal. He was a Lord.

He turned with lightning speed as a cough came from near the front of column 13.

"This better be good, Mothudi," growled Peepers into the mic in his most commanding voice.

"Sir, I just thought you should know that, if you'd look down below your feet, there'd be something you'd be interested in seeing, so take a glance...

"Curses, Mothudi!" boomed Peepers, channeling the spirit of Hater, if not his voice. "Get to the point!"

"That!" cried Mothudi, pointing below the podium.

Peepers leapt back in shock. A mini-pyramid of three watchdogs - he couldn't be sure, but he was certain Amanda was one of them - was groaning under the weight of a fourth. Otto stood at the peak with a pair of gardening shears, ready to cut the mic's power cable.

Peepers gasped and clutched his heart. Not the mic! That was the source of all his power! How could he keep control without it?!

"Mothudi, get up here!" he cried. As the watchdog scrambled onto the stage, disorder broke out in the ranks. Otto was on the verge of reaching the cable, and everyone could plainly see it. Amanda looked at the podium with famished glee. Most of the watchdogs stood silently, but there were some ragged cheers from near the back. Others, though, took issue with the sedition, and there were more than a few fist-fights.

Peepers heard a crack and leapt out of the way as the podium fell to the ground like a toppled statue in a revolution. To his immense relief it wasn't broken. This bought him time: the pyramid of watchdogs fell along with it, and their shears narrowly missed a still-motionless set of watchdogs at the front of the columns. The podium and cable were safe - for now.

"I can't be seen talking to you," said Mothudi. He ducked under the curtain separating the crowd from the backstage; Peepers followed along, taking several seconds to extricate his lightning bolt from the fabric. Amidst the confusion, the pyramidal mutineers didn't see him go.

"What's going on?! " screeched Peepers. "They're… rebelling?"

"Hold on," said Mathudi, sticking his head out back below the curtain. Peepers watched in disbelief as his butt wiggled from side to side. Mathudi turned back around and addressed Peepers eye to eye. "I have examined the situation and I confirm your hypothesis. Some of them are still, in fact, rebelling."

Peepers launched a facepalm of such velocity that he instantly regretted it.

"Why?!"

"Without conducting a scientific, controlled survey it's difficult to be sure, but I think it's because some of them hate your guts. Let me check further." He ducked his head back under the curtain to further keep tabs on the discontent among the ranks.

This hit Peepers as firmly as a punch, or indeed a facepalm. How could they hate him? He was Hater's favorite. He was selected from their ranks to serve at their master's side. He had a special uniform. Heck, he even had special privileges, and he alone had authority to dispense punishment to other watchdogs…

… oh. _Oh. _It began to make sense. They were _jealous!_ Jealous of what was rightfully his!

Well, he'd show them. After the small matter of quelling a mutiny, of course.

"Mathudi," said Peepers, grabbing his companion by the feet and dragging him fully backstage. He flipped him onto his back and loomed over him, desperation in his eye. "I need help. We need to stop the rebellion."

"Well, from what I can see, it's only around a dozen of them."

"That's good. At least I have some friends around. Lots of them. Loyal ones!" Peepers felt slightly better at the news, and felt his status of anointed one slowly returning.

"Oh, no," said Mathudi, shaking his head. "That's not it at all. They're just all so scared of Hater that they don't want to move in case he comes back early."

As quickly as it arrived, Peepers' joy turned back to despair. And then scepticism.

"Wait a minute," said Peepers, cocking his eye. "If everyone hates me so much, why are you helping me out?"

"Because I helped build that podium," said Mathudi. "Me and you. Remember?"

And suddenly it all came back to Peepers. It was a normal day, back when Peepers still had normal days as part of the vast army. He was assigned with Mathudi to a carpentry job: not something he had any experience in, but when did that ever stop the watchdogs? It was a little-known fact in the galaxy that a watchdog's job changed simply with the switch of a hat. Is a watchdog wearing a nurse's cap? He's a medic. Is she wearing a fire helmet? She's a firefighter. Is he wearing a cap with a brand of whiskey on it? He's a carpenter.

* * *

Peepers relived the moment. He and Mathudi built the most evil-looking, imposing podium they could that day, hammering thumbs and sanding off toes as they did so. When the suns set, they were finally done. Hater examined it as the two artisans stood sweating in the background.

"Mmph," said Hater, Peepers recalling the moment with ease. "I've seen worse. Acceptable work, minions." Then he turned and walked away.

Peepers, in a moment of bravery that even he couldn't account for, stepped forward and said seven words that were to change his life forever.

"Sir!" he squealed. Hater turned around and gazed at the tiny minion with a withering scowl.

"You dare address me?" he said in a tone dripping with contempt.

"… wouldn't it look better with horns?"

Hater paused for a moment, then stormed towards Peepers. He towered over him, the minion reduced to the ground, scrambling backwards on his hands.

Finally Hater spoke. "That is… actually a pretty decent idea," he said. He stood upright; confused, and more than a little relieved, Peepers did likewise.

"I like this one!" laughed Hater to nobody in particular. "Horns! It'll look like a goat or something! Ha!" Hater clicked a finger at Mathudi "Minion, procure for us some horns at once. You, other minion: come with me. We have a blueprint to draw up."

Peepers did go with him. And since then he'd hardly left Hater's side at all.

* * *

He was summoned back to reality by a clattering noise from the stage. This time he stuck his own head under to see the podium newly upright, Amanda swinging on one of the horns and hollering madly. Otto, meanwhile, was still looking for the shears. The rebellion looked as though it was now 20-strong.

But how could he regain order? He knew if the podium was damaged, Hater would know what had happened.

Time was running out. But his determination was not.

_Oh, it's on now,_ thought Peepers. _They just touched the horns._


	3. Chapter 3

"Hey, Peepers," said Mothudi, climbing to his feet and dusting himself off. "I mean, I know I said I want to save the podium and all, but…"

"But what?" said Peepers, more irritably than he meant to. Stress was taking its toll, and not for the first time. He needed space, he needed time to come up with a plan. But he knew within minutes the podium would be in pieces, and even _if_ he quelled the mutiny after that, Hater would surely see the damage done.

"But I meant what I said. A lot of those guys out there… they _really_ hate you. Like, on a scale of one to ten, I'd say you're hated on around an eight-point-five level by the majority. At _least_ eight-point-five."

"OK."

"They don't even call you peepers anymore. They call you 'the Dauphin' or 'that suck-up' or 'the P-word'."

"OK." A few minutes ago such news would have crushed Peepers. But now all be could think about was making sure he didn't disappoint Lord Hater.

"Maybe a nine out of ten after this event. I can't be sure without a detailed analysis…"

"I get it!"

"Let's just call it a nine. To be on the safe side."

Peepers facepalmed again. Mothudi was, to put it mildly, the scientific type. That's half of why their built the podium so well in the first place. Peepers had the vision and the elbow grease; Mothudi had the know-how to make it happen.

Maybe… with their powers combined, they could do it again.

_You can do this_, thought Peepers to himself. _There's only twenty of them. The rest aren't going to turn now. They're too scared of Hater. Twenty of them, two of you._

_But if only Hater was here…_

_If only._

_Why not?_

"Mothudi!" cried Peepers, grabbing his companion by the shoulders. "Run to the storeroom. Get all the red and black cloth you can carry, and bring it back here. I'll be right back!"

"Where are you going?" said Mothudi, but Peepers was already halfway to the kitchen.

* * *

The army kitchen was something else. The mess hall was big enough - it had to be, since the army ate all at the one time - and that meant the kitchen was equally gigantic. Watchdogs in chefs' hats doled out pea soup and pancakes on Mondays, minestrone and muffins on Tuesdays, bouillabaise and bread rolls on Wednesday, and so on until Sunday. Sunday was a special day: pot roast and pretzels.

Such was the scope of the operation that the watchdogs even slaughtered their own cattle for the meat dishes, and that meant a healthy supply of bones.

_Yes. Bones._

Peepers grabbed a sack of rice from the main store room and sliced it open with his lightning bolt, rice spilling across the floor as he sprinted to the trash room. At times like this, he thought, having no sense of smell wasn't too bad. He's read about other races having it, but well, this must trash surely smelled terrible.

He grabbed every bone he could and tossed them into his rice sack, and began laboriously dragging it to the backstage. He just hoped Mothudi's trademark efficiency had paid off and that he'd be there waiting with the rest of the supplies.

* * *

"I'm here waiting with the rest of the supplies," shouted Mothudi as Peepers ascended the last step to the backstage area, tossing the bones over his shoulder with his last ounce of energy.

"Oh… oh… good," panted Peepers. "Just… a minute…"

"That's quite alright. The bones must be heavy. I'll get started on the femurs and tibias."

"You… what? How?" said Peepers.

"I figured out your plan. Black and red cloth? You're going to make a crude facsimile of Lord Hater, right?"

"Yeah, but… the bones… how did you know?"

"You were shouting things like 'MAN, THESE BONES ARE HEAVY' and 'I WISH THERE WEREN'T SO MANY BONES' for the last two and a half minutes."

Peepers facepalmed, again. He needed to stop doing that.

"And you didn't help?"

"Well, I was busy manufacturing this cloak," said Mothudi, pointing to a hook on the wall.

Wow, he'd actually done it. And in life-size, too.

Maybe this would work out after all.

* * *

Within five minutes, with liberal use of duct tape, rope, and of course several bones, they'd rigged up something resembling Lord Hater. Well, in a certain light, at least. As long as nobody noticed he had two cow skulls for a head, a bunch of ribs for arms, and a bunch of legs for ribs, it was actually a pretty good likeness.

There was only one step left, and that was easy. There was a second microphone, hooked up to the PA system. It was to Peepers' relief that it still seemed to work, even though it hadn't been used since the Watchdog Appreciation Day of 2006. (Subsequent years' events were cancelled until morale improved.)

"Ready?" said Mothudi.

"Ready," replied Peepers. Mothudi sprinted up the steps to the rafters and grabbed the ropes tied around Hater's rib-arms. As he pulled from above, Wander pushed from below, clutching the microphone in his hand.

* * *

As the ersatz Hater emerged from the curtain, Peepers quickly ducked under the cloak. Among the cow bones, he tapped the mic again.

"On three," he whispered to himself. "One, two…"

"Three!" muttered Mothudi forty feet above.

"MINIONS!" boomed Peepers in his best Hater voice. At that exact moment, Mothudi tugged the arm-ropes with all his might. It worked! It looked just like Hater ready to rain down curses upon the army.

"I HAVE, UH… RETURNED FROM THE PLACE I WENT TO!" continued Peepers, as Mothudi jerked the arms from the rafters. "IT WAS FAIRLY AWESOME! I AM REALLY GOOD AT BEING LORD HATER!"

"UNFORTUNATELY I TEMPORARILY LOST MY VISION, SO WHILE I AM DIMLY AWARE OF SOME NOISE IN THE GENERAL PODIUM AREA, I HAVE NO IDEA WHO OR WHAT IS CAUSING IT. WHEN I GET MY SIGHT BACK I ASSUME THE PODIUM WILL BE BACK IN PLACE AND FULLY UNDAMAGED, AND BECAUSE I'M ALL BUSY AND STUFF I WON'T ASK ANYONE WHAT HAPPENED. SO, LIKE, IF YOU COULD MAKE SURE EVERYTHING LOOKED THE WAY IT DID BEFORE I LEFT, THAT WOULD BE _**REALLY**__**COOL!**_"

Mothudi shook his head as he worked the arms. For someone who spent so much time with Hater, Peepers did a terrible impression.

"NOW, EVERYONE TAKE A NAP AND DON'T OPEN YOUR EYES UNTIL I SAY SO. WHICH MAY BE **_THREE DAYS FROM_**** NOW!**"

But to his amazement, it seemed to have worked. The pyramid, Otto included, put the microphone back in its place, gave the horns a quick polish, then scattered back to their spots and immediately curled up in their sleeping positions, eyes closed to the very last watchdog.

Peepers snuck a tentative glance from under the cloak. He saw what Mothudi saw, then looked up to him. They exchanged thumbs-up.

_Whew_, thought Peepers. _Order restored. With a little help from my Lord Hater!_

Just as Peepers wondered how long he could keep the ruse going, the door at the back of the hall burst open.

"Curses!" shouted an all-too familiar voice. "How dare they double-book _my_hotel suite?"

_Oh no. Ohno ohno ohno._

Hater dragged his suitcase through the door, back first. "I'll never go back to that penny-ante convention so long as I live! Minions! Prepare the stage and-"

Hater turned around to be confronted with… well, the worst effigy of himself he'd ever seen.

Peepers' eye darted from side to side, and then up. Nobody. He looked back out at the crowd. Mothudi was in his spot, sleeping like a log.

"UHH…. I CAN EXPLAIN, LORD HATER" said Peepers into the microphone in the Hater voice. "Uh… I mean… I can explain."

Then he heard the loudest sound of his life. Lord Hater's roar mixed with the clattering of bones and the tearing of cloth.

All his hard work, ruined.

At least the podium was OK.


End file.
